


your kinda heaven (been to hell and back)

by Idday



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 2020 NHL Coronavirus Pause, Body Worship, Established Relationship, M/M, Quarantined Together, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: “My god, Zimmermann,” Kent says, and he’s eating Nutella off a spoon and Jack’s panting and sweaty. Ran a half-marathon on the treadmill mostly because he was bored, and he overdid it—his legs are screaming at him and his heart rate’s still high. He’d peeled his shirt off during mile five, which might be why Kent is watching him, languorous, tounging the handle of his spoon.(Scenes from a Quarantine.)
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 88
Kudos: 279





	your kinda heaven (been to hell and back)




Jack has a gym in his basement. Free weights, a treadmill, a bike. Every day at 10, he goes down, works through his weight circuits, warms himself up and then cools himself down. He likes the structure, especially with a question mark hanging over the rest of his season. 

Sometimes at 10:16, sometimes at 10:34, Kent wanders in. Always wants the weights Jack’s using, wearing oversized headphones, bobbing his head along. He couldn’t carry a tune if it had a handle, but he tries anyway, singing along to the tinny pop music Jack can hear from across the room. Always wearing tank tops with cut-out arms and one of his snapbacks to hide the riot of his hair. 

Jack’s had better training partners, but certainly not ones who’ve dropped what they’re doing just to watch Jack execute his squats from across the room the way Kent does, mouth falling open, wiping sweat away with the hem of a ratty t-shirt from a playoff run back in the Q. 




Jack hasn’t slept through the night since 2009. In the dark, he tosses and turns, too warm and too cold in turn, drowsing between bouts of restlessness. 

On the other side of the mattress, Kent passes out regularly for eight hours, like clockwork, oblivious. 

Jack spends most nights watching his face, learning the freckles on his nose, wishing he could push back Kent’s cowlick without waking him. 

It’s two twenty-three when Kent rolls over and says, “I’ve been working on the rake.” 

“What?” Jack asks, pushing up on an elbow, and realizes only when he hears his own voice that they’re both speaking French. 

“Should I put it in the well or on top?” Kent asks. 

Jack smiles, suddenly. Sleeptalking—another little quirk he had forgotten. 

“In the well, Kenny,” he says. 

“I think so,” Kent says, matter-of-factly. 

“Go to sleep, baby,” Jack tells him, and he rolls over and does. 




Kent is overserved, which Jack knows for a fact, because he’s the bartender. The nights blur together and there’s no skate in the morning and they train on their own schedule, so he indulges; tips more whiskey into Kent’s glass when he asks. 

His cheeks are flushed, he’s giggly and open. Falls into Jack’s lap, inevitable. 

“Zimms,” he says. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty.” 

“Easy, Parse,” Jack says, and can’t help but smile. 

“I am easy,” Kent says, laughing. “All easy and drunk on ya. Remind you of your first time?” 

Jack hums, smooths his hands down Kent’s back. “My first time was with some girl at a house party. But we were definitely drunk. Or, I was.” 

“My first time was exactly like this,” Kent says, leans in and kisses him soft and sloppy. “Exactly. Got drunk and couldn’t stay away from you. Only, I guess, this time I can just kiss you. Don’t have to worry about fuckin’ Smitty and Jonesy watching. Hoping it ends the same way, you sneak me into your room and let me suck you off.” 

“Wait, Kenny,” Jack says, stilling, pulling back from the kisses being peppered across his cheeks. “Wait. I was... that was your first time?” 

“Duh, Zimms,” Kent says, wrinkling his nose. Smiling at him. “Who else would it have been?” 

Everything realigns, precious in hindsight. 

“Oh,” Jack says. “Oh.” 

Kent sits back, waiting him out. Watching him process. 

“Was it,” Jack stutters, “I mean. I remember it, but I didn’t know that it was—was it good? For you?” 

Kent grins, sudden and bright. “Jack, I had the biggest crush on you. And you wanted me back, like. A fuckin’ miracle.” 

“Oh,” Jack says again. 

“A fuckin’ miracle,” Kent says again, and licks into his mouth. 




Kent comes awake slowly in the morning. Jack tends to erupt into wakefulness at the slightest sound: a passing truck, a chirping bird. The tick of his own internal clock. 

Kent can spend hours in bed, after he wakes up. He scrolls through Instagram, Twitter, Tik Tok in turns, only to repeat two or three times. He answers emails with one eye closed and involves himself in online drama half-naked beneath the covers. Only rolls into the shower two minutes before his next appointment when Jack starts swearing at him in French. 

He can’t stand the way Jack makes coffee, but he’s never ready for his first cup until Jack’s finished with his pot, anyway. He stands over the ancient Mr. Coffee at the counter, thumbing through notifications, too impatient to wait for the pot to brew before he pulls it out and pours a scant cup. He needs a haircut, and can’t get one. His cowlicks have cowlicks. His hair is dripping; a ringlet falls over one eye. 

Jack goes to hug him from behind, rubbing his nose into the crown of Kent’s head. Mostly to rile him up. 

“Mon chum,” Kent coos, absent minded, reaches behind himself to pat Jack on the hip. 

“Leg day,” Jack says. 

“Feed the wolf, baby,” Kent says, and swigs out of his mug, coffee strong to the point of sludge. 

“Might be back at training soon,” Jack says, needlessly. Kent knows. Kent’s on the return-to-play committee. Everything Jack knows, Kent’s told him. 

Kent must hear something there, something hollow. He puts his mug down, and his phone, and turns in Jack’s arms. 

“But we’re not, yet,” he says. 




“Put the cap back on the toothpaste, Parson,” Jack says through a mouthful of foam. 

Kent dollops twice as much toothpaste as he needs on the bristles of his own brush. Leaves the cap off. 

“What, you gonna spank me?” he asks, winking, and shoves the brush in his mouth. 

Jack takes a moment as he spits, considering. Whether Kent is serious. 

“Only if you ask nice,” he says, finally. There—both playful and true. Just like Kent. 

Kent smiles, and a stream of toothpaste rushes down his chin. Jack grimaces. 

Kent spits, rinses. “Could be fun,” he says. “Not like we got much else to do.” 

Kent has a very involved nighttime routine—lotions and potions and creams. Jack watches him slather something over his face, not uninterested. Says, “you spend an ungodly amount on magic lotions that probably don’t even do anything.” 

“Just ‘cause I don’t wash my face with fuckin’ dial soap, Zimmermann.” 

“It’s not dial,” Jack says. 

“Listen, mon chum,” Kent says, moving onto serum number three, “not all of us were blessed with supermodel genes, okay? I gotta be keeping it tight. You’re gonna be one of those guys that gets, like, way hotter when they get older. And I intend on being a kept man, so I’m gonna keep slathering myself in, like, goat milk or whatever. And you’ll see. Nobody will ever suspect I’m technically like a month older than you.” 

“I'm going to keep you no matter what,” Jack says into the back of his neck. “But that does smell good, actually.” 

He smooths a hand up the front of Kent’s shirt, a teasing caress. Presses his lips into Kent’s neck just once more for good measure. “I’m going to bed,” he says, cocking an eyebrow, half-hoping that Kent will be tempted to follow. “But have fun antioxidizing.” 




In between the interminable nothing—the interminable video calls. The eastern conference, then the metro, then the cup winning Falconers team. Kent meets with the other captains once a week and the NHLPA twice a month. They meet with their coaches and their GMs and their local beat reporters. Different designated seats in a half-hearted attempt to make it less obvious they’re in the same apartment. 

An Oceanic reunion to make Jack talk about a season he only half-remembers, a championship that nearly killed him. 

Kent sits across the table from him, headphones on, bracketing his ankle with his own legs. 

“You can tap out, Zimms,” he says, uncharacteristically grave. “Or, like. Fake a medical emergency.” 

“It’s fine,” Jack says, and it is, mostly. Kent takes the brunt of the questions, the most famous alumnus. Some of the guys are in the league, some coaching or in front offices. A few call in from their living rooms in middle America where they’ve settled into life as tax accountants. A chirpy TV personality does his best to keep them involved and half-succeeds. 

“Jack,” the moderator chirps, “talk me through getting back on the ice and facing off against Parson, your former teammate. Must have been strange!” 

“Ah,” Jack says, rubbing the back of his head. Kent nudges his ankle, smiling placidly for the camera. “Honestly, not too much changed. A little different not being on the same team, for sure. But we were always, uh. Competitive, I guess I would say. And that made us both better, I think. So, yeah. Not too different. Every time I see him I’m still trying to top Parson.” 

Kent nudges his ankle harder, cheeks flaming. “Kent! Your response?” 

“I mean,” he chuckles. “I wouldn’t say I’m always the one getting topped. You know, I think we end up pretty even on that front. But yeah, we definitely are competitive and we keep that edge around each other, but end of the day I guess I’d say it’s all respect and love there and, uh. That definitely hasn’t changed.” 

Jack kicks him back. “All love here,” he says, smiling like he’s half joking. 




Jack never tells Kent they beat their old record, time spent together in the same place. He's not sure that Kent ever counted, and not sure if he wants to know. 

Each morning his mental tally clicks over, another impossible stolen day. He watches Kent wake up, his eyes fluttering. The room is a little pink with sunrise and his eyes look very green. All fucked out after the night before, even after Jack mopped him up and put him to bed. 

“Hi,” Kent croaks. 

“Hey, baby,” Jack says, leans in to kiss his bottom lip. 

“Sleep okay?” Kent asks, and Jack shrugs, because he never does. 

Kent dozes again in his arms, eyes fluttering closed. Shifts when one of Jack’s neighbors slams a car door. 

“I keep thinking,” Jack says, when Kent seems really awake, “about. How you said, uh, that I was your first.” 

“Yeah,” Kent says, watchful. “Does that. Bother you?” 

“No,” Jack says, too quickly. 

“Oh,” Kent says, pushing up on an arm. “Do you. I mean. Are you saying, like, that you like that?” 

Jack flushes, all at once. “Yeah, I guess,” he says, because he doesn’t want to lie. “I kinda wish I knew then, that it was your first time.” 

“It was good for me, though, baby.” 

“I know, but. I could have made it better.” 

Kent flops back down. “Maybe you had an advantage, because I didn’t have, like, anything to compare it to. Also, I was obsessed with you, so I thought it was perfect. For the record.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, thumbing over one of his eyebrows, unruly from his pillow. 

Kent smiles in a way that makes all the blood in Jack’s body rush south, Pavlovian. “We could have a redo,” he suggests. “Get a little drunk, I’ll get a little handsy. It’s my first time, so you’ll have to be gentle.” 

“Kenny,” Jack breathes, throat dry and scratchy. 

“We can do that if you want, Jack. It wouldn’t even be hard for me—I’m still fuckin’ obsessed with you. Thank god I met you when you were, like, sixteen and hadn’t started deadlifting two hundred pounds or wearing clothes that fit. If I was still a teenager and met you now, I might just drop dead on the spot.” 

His voice is low, breathless. It’s turning him on talking about it, and Jack’s never thought much about pretending that things are any different between them when it’s so good the way it is, but seeing Kent all flushed with arousal turns him on, too. 

“We could do it that way, Jack,” Kent continues. “I could be like, new to your team. Just got called up to the show, all nervous and shy.” 

“Yeah?” Jack says, like Kent’s ever been shy a day in his life. 

“Yeah, and I probably had a coronary when I saw you in the locker room for the first time. But you’re a good guy, leader in the room. Take me out to fuckin’ lunch or something, try to make me feel welcome.” 

Jack kisses him, surges forward to do it. Rolls Kent under his big body, reaches between them. Takes them both in hand. “Keep going, Parson,” he says. 

“Probably gonna have to seduce you,” Kent says, trailing off into a moan, “‘cause you’re a good guy, would never wanna presume.” 

“Yeah,” Jack pants, working them harder. 

“Tell you how bad I want it,” Kent says, “tell you I’ve never been with another dude before. You’ll have to show me what to do.” 

“Fuck,” Jack says, with feeling. He remembers Kent back then, all bright eyes and determination. Remembers how he made Jack feel, wanted, against the odds. How he still does. 

“Fuck,” he says again, and comes, Kent following behind. 

He buries his head into Kent’s neck before he rolls off, Kent reaching up to pet at his head. 

“Wow, Zimms,” he says. He might be laughing a little, not viciously. A huff of air. “Next time you’ll have to tell me one of yours.” 




“My god, Zimmermann,” Kent says, and he’s eating Nutella off a spoon and Jack’s panting and sweaty. Ran a half-marathon on the treadmill mostly because he was bored, and he overdid it—his legs are screaming at him and his heart rate’s still high. He’d peeled his shirt off during mile five, which might be why Kent is watching him, languorous, tounging the handle of his spoon. 

Jack leans over the sink to fill a glass of water; Kent smacks him on the ass, hard, and Jack says, “oof, Parse,” and feels himself flush. He’ll never be used to the way Kent watches him, the blatant interest. 

“Sorry,” Kent says, not sounding it. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy, Jack. Can’t help myself.” 

Jack gives a full-head eyeroll in lieu of trying to respond to that, chugging the water down. He drinks too fast, throat dry, and water spills out of the glass and down his chin, dripping onto his chest. 

“Jesus,” Kent says, two distinct syllables, all punched out. As if he wasn’t on People’s 100 hottest list last year, as if he doesn’t have a thirst following on social media a million strong, as if Jack doesn’t literally have wet dreams about him. As if Jack’s the catch. “National fuckin’ treasure, baby. Oh, Canada, etc.” 

Jack can still feel the pink in his cheeks, hopes he can play it off as exertion from his workout. “I’m going to shower,” he says, and Kent screws the lid back onto the Nutella and drops the spoon into the sink with an ungodly clatter. 

“That an invite?” 

“You haven’t even worked out yet, Kenny,” Jack throws over his shoulder, but Kent follows him into the bathroom, hooks fingers in the waistband of Jack’s shorts. Pulls them off with a tug. 

“Pretty sure you can help me burn some calories,” he says, gaze steady. 




Kent talks to his mother on the phone sprawled upside down on the couch, head nearly tipping off the cushion. It’s a short conversation—they talk nearly every day. 

Jack reads next to him, feet on the coffee table, hand on Kent’s chest. Paying half attention to the feel of cotton under his fingertips, stroking over Kent’s heart. 

His accent comes through with his family. He talks faster. Kent is the only one of the bunch who speaks any French at all, but he always answers their calls with, “ _bonjour,_ _c’est_ _moi_ ," which his sister finds consistently hilarious for a reason Jack still doesn’t understand. 

“Mom says hi,” Kent says, and Jack mumbles, “hello, say hi for me,” and then Kent hangs up and tips his face into Jack’s thigh for a long moment. 

“Now you?” he asks, so Jack closes the book and Kent dials Alicia on speaker and reorients himself, head in Jack’s lap. 

Jack does most of the talking and so does his mother, Bob interjecting every few minutes and Kent pitching in with off-handed chirps that make Bob roar with laughter from somewhere across the border. 

Kent nudges up the front of Jack’s shirt when talk turns to family friends he hasn’t met, searching out bare skin. Jack has stretch marks there that won’t ever fade, silvery and pale. Also across his thighs, his hips, his ass, the undersides of his arms. Kent always touches them without intent or judgement or question. Almost like he doesn’t see them, or care, or wish they’d disappear. He loved Jack before he grew. 

Now, he kisses Jack there, on his belly, where Jack’s soft and relaxed on the couch, and Jack represses the instinct to tense or flex under him, only twines his fingers through Kent’s hair. Kent kisses him again, makes a small, soft sound. 

“Love you,” Jack says to all of them. 




Kent’s sprawled diagonally across the bed, naked and carefree. Jack watches him bob his foot to a tune playing only in his head, watches the muscles in his shoulders bunch as he texts someone back, the quirk of his head. 

“The fuck?” Kent mutters under his breath. 

Jack makes sure his footsteps carry before he grasps Kent’s ankle, soft and warm. 

Kent glances over his shoulder. “See something you like?” he asks, quirked eyebrow and crooked smile. 

“Hmm,” Jack agrees. Presses himself down, slowly, until they fit together, back to front. Presses Kent down with his weight. Listens to the way his breath quickens. 

Jack’s inches taller, pounds heavier, but they nestle together like destiny. He presses his mouth to the back of Kent’s neck, inches below the fine gold of his hairline. Open and wet, he sucks once. Kent drops his phone. 

Jack pushes back up on his arms, pulls off his shirt. Takes a second to look. 

He knows every inch of Kent. The cluster of freckles on his shoulder blade that look like the Big Dipper, the birthmark high on his thigh. Two divots at the base of his spine; two sharp grooves for an Apollo’s belt. Firm calves over fine ankles. A landscape of muscle and skin and sinew that Jack’s colonized. 

“You have a dimple in your ass,” he says, and it’s true. Right where it curves into thigh, on the right side—distinct and deep, a dimple. 

“Shut up,” Kent says, turning his head into his elbow. 

“No,” Jack says, “it’s my favorite part.” He lowers himself back down, thumbs smoothing over Kent’s asscheeks, watching the furrows his fingertips carve. Kisses Kent again, right over the dimple. And again. 

“My dick is very sorry to hear that,” Kent says, “you dick.” 

Jack opens his mouth; bites gently. Just enough to earn an intake of breath. “Well,” he concedes, “really, all of you is my favorite part.” 

Kent swallows, audibly. “Stop,” he says. 

Jack sits back up, not touching. 

“I...” Kent says. “I didn’t mean, like. _Stop,_ stop. Just.” 

Jack puts a hand on his back, firm and soothing. “Baby,” he says. 

“Just, it’s hard, okay?” 

“But don’t stop?” Jack confirms. 

“Don’t stop,” Kent tells the mattress. 

Jack moves his hands, thumb back over Kent’s dimple, skin damp from his mouth. Rubs over the crease of his thigh. Kent’s sensitive, all over, but especially there. He shivers. 

“Why is it hard?” Jack says, trying to keep his voice even. 

Their past manifests itself in stolen glances and shortened sentences and aborted words. And sometimes, here, where Kent can’t allow himself to be worshipped. 

“Because,” Kent says, and doesn’t go further. 

But Jack bows his head, supplicant, and kisses him, and whispers, “tell me.” 

Kent doesn’t, but Jack has time. Presses a thumb to his hole, tender and firm. 

For a month, they’ve trained and fucked and eaten and fucked again. Kent opens for him so easily, soft and pink. Jack’s helpless. 

He rims Kent until his tongue is half-numb. Licks into him, hungry, until Kent is sobbing into his own arm. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he says, despondent, picking up the thread of conversation again, weaving it deftly into their sex. 

“Baby,” Jack says, pulling back, cushioning his head in the curve of Kent’s back. He smooths hands down Kent’s splayed legs. “You didn’t do anything. Didn’t have to. It’s not about deserving.” 

Jack works his way up Kent’s back, slick with sweat, mapping his favorite places. A cartographer in his own backyard. Kent trembles against him. 

“You want it?” Jack asks him. Kent hitches his breath and nods. 

He's soft from Jack’s mouth, but Jack doesn’t give him more. Doesn’t need to. Kent loves it like this—tight, slow, working himself open for Jack. Feeling like he’s earned it. 

Jack likes what Kent likes. 

There's slick within arms’ reach almost everywhere in Jack’s place, these days. Jack uses it liberally, working it into Kent with fingertips, slicking himself up, a tease. 

“Fuck me,” Kent pants. 

“I will, baby,” Jack says. “Gonna give you everything you want. Give you everything. You know why?” 

He works himself in, slow, steady. Rubs Kent’s back as he breathes through it. 

“You good, Kenny?” he asks, sheathed, arms trembling where they’re braced on either side of Kent’s broad shoulders. Kent reaches up, loops shaky fingers around his wrist. He does this, sometimes. In bed, on the couch. In training. In the store. Reaching out to feel the blood rushing through Jack’s veins, reassuring himself. 

“Yeah, Zimms,” he says, voice soft. “I’m good.” 

Jack keeps it slow, deep, rocking into him with all the force in his thighs and his ass, muscles burning. Knocks the breath out of him with every thrust. 

“I want you to tell me,” Jack says, into his ear. “Tell me why I’m gonna give you everything you want.” 

Kent shakes his head, “I don’t know,” he says. 

“You know,” Jack tells him, punctuates it with a kiss behind his ear. “You know why. Tell me, Kenny.” 

Kent shakes his head again. He’s so close, squirming under Jack’s weight, high, breathless whimpers escaping that he’ll deny later. Working his cock in his own hand under himself. 

“Zimms,” he says. “Gonna come.” 

“I know,” Jack pants, “say it, baby. Tell me why.” 

Kent exhales, hard. His breath hitches on a sob, and he says, “because you love me?” 

Around Jack’s wrist, his fingers tighten, grasping at a lifeline. 

“Yes,” Jack says, into his neck. “Because I love you. I’m going to give you anything you want. Anything I have. Because I love you.” 

Kent’s crying in earnest, now. He shudders and comes under Jack, fucking his own free fist, tightening around Jack’s cock. “Love you,” Jack breathes again, and comes. 

Day 1. 

Kent’s wearing a Falconers snapback and clutching a grimy Samwell duffle bag when Jack opens the door. His face falls into a smile, cocky and easy. 

It hadn’t occurred to Jack quite how it would feel to have him here, in the flesh, in March, real and wrong and illicit. He’d asked him to come, but hadn’t expected him to say yes. 

“You’re here,” Jack says, dumbly. He’d had the notifications for the flight turned on. He knew. 

Kent drops the duffle, shrugs. “They told us to come home,” he says. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'mmmmmm baaaaaacccckkk!!! 
> 
> Really, I just wanted to write something gigantically tender. Choose your own adventure of how they got to this established relationship!! Unbelievably, a no-angst zone from yours truly!
> 
> This was a lot of fun but I also shot myself in the foot because now I JUST wanna write the AU where Jack really is an established NHLer and hot-shot rookie Kent Parson joins the team and is just fucking blindsided with an inappropriate crush. 
> 
> I would love your thoughts and feedback - I'm super rusty with these two! Please let me know if I should tag better or add additional tags, etc. Hope everyone is staying safe and well!


End file.
